


The Venom In Our Veins

by Beauteousmajesty



Series: One Chance To Save Yourself [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (not lucien tho), Abandonment Issues, Assassination, Blood Magic, Cults, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Murder, Other, Poison, Prostitution, They/Them Pronouns for Mollymauk Tealeaf, Warning: Trent Ikithon, au - dark mighty nein, beau's childhood as its own warning, dont read this is you are not emotionally prepared to be sad, non binary mollymauk, there's a lot going on here ok, they're all so lonely, time is a little bit funky, what if, word on the street is its cathartic sad, worst case mighty nein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beauteousmajesty/pseuds/Beauteousmajesty
Summary: At one point or other, each member of the Mighty Nein has resisted becoming the person that someone else wants them to be. One by one they have let the venom out of their veins and become a family together.What if they didn't? What if they fulfilled those tasks, stayed controlled, didn't remember who they'd been, or didn't get kicked out of Nicodranas or Karmordah?Please only read this if you have considered the implications and are prepared to be really sad.
Relationships: Astrid/Eodwulf/Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Bren Aldric Ermendrud/Lucien, Caduceus Clay & Mollymauk Tealeaf, Fjord/Jester Lavorre, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Series: One Chance To Save Yourself [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974220
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	The Venom In Our Veins

There is a flash and the fuzzy darkness around Nonagon clears. He’s not sure if the fuzziness draws from the ritual or blood loss or both. He is safe to pull the blades from his wrists now. There’s a sting as he yanks them out and then a clatter as they fall to the floor from his lax fingers.

The blades will be swimming in a pool of blood, he does not need to blink his eyes open fully to know this. He’s seen it before. Each time the Tomb Takers perform one of these rituals his blood runs freely from him to draw the necessary sigils on the ground. He lifts a hand to wipe away the blood that has clotted in his eyes, uncaring of any blood from his open wrists spreading to clothes that he knows are already ruined.

Before him lies a completed sigil that glows with the same luminosity as the eyes that watch from his hands and body. He can feel the bitter cold of the activated blood runes that empower his flesh. He feels the power set into his veins. 

The ritual has succeeded. Nonagon smiles a dark smile, he had almost fallen midway through, as the blood loss from any ritual he spearheaded grew intense. Cree moves from her place in the circle to move to start mopping up his blood. He feels her power hum as she calls upon their patron to cauterise his wounds. The sacrifice necessary has been made.

Nonagon carefully stretches out muscles that have been frozen for hours of chanting and sacrifice. For the first time in over four hours, he looks up from his lap to survey those who populate the outside of the sigil. The spellslinger from the capital meets his eyes before brushing a ginger curl behind his ear and rising.

‘I will take my leave, and the tome, as agreed.’ 

There is no emotion in the voice of the wizard. He brushes dust from the basement floor from his knees and closes the book from which he had recited for the ritual. Nonagon watches as the tome vanishes within the human’s ornate coat, before the man turns away from the Tomb Takers to find a clean patch of floor to draw on with chalk. It is a show of either extreme confidence or stupidity from the mage, perhaps both. Nonagon cannot help to be intrigued by the wizard’s lack of concern for the threat his associates represent.

He cannot help but feel as if there is more to be said to this man, but for once in his life he cannot think of a thing to say to him. He has been trusted with no name to call him by, but for the first time in this kind of situation, he is drawn by a need to know. By the time that he has determined something that he could say to this nameless mage, it is too late, for his circle flashes, and he is gone.

Nonagon rises to his feet, watching his underlings, his family, pack up elements of the ritual. By morning they will be gone, back on the road to Shady Creek Run. This place will be left behind and forgotten. He distracts himself from the mage by thinking about what curse he will lay upon this place as they leave it. 

Cree takes his hand. He is perhaps a little unstable from the blood loss. His cleric does not hesitate to support him, although she is skilled in the art of making it look as though she is not. It takes him a moment to notice that the rest of the group’s activity has halted, they are ready to go. So he leads them out, on unsteady feet, into the red tinted dawn.

Before he leaves, he lets the blood in his eyes run freely once more as he leaves his own particular magical flair on a glaive that marks the threshold to the hovel they’d overtaken. It would be left undisturbed long enough for his blood to settle. Good. He sweeps his head down to press a kiss to the top of Cree’s furry head. Anything to keep her loyal.

‘Off we go then!’

He speaks with more energy than he really has. He knows how quickly an order can fall, that is, after all, how he took control of this one. He will show no pain, no weakness. The others cannot know how weak he is from almost bleeding out his entire life force. He is their god, their leader and he will not fall. They have work to do, yet.

And with that their cart is rolling its way back to the Run. Within it, Nonagon sleeps, and if he dreams of an impassive, red-headed mage, that’s for no-one else to know.

* * *

Something has shifted, Obann tells the Orphan Maker. This is good. Somewhere, far away, one of the Angel’s shackles has been weakened. There is glee in her friend’s voice and the Orphan Maker derives a quiet comfort from his happiness. Obann’s happiness makes it less likely for his ire to come her way, as it has so often of late.

She has not had a moment to clean off her sword. They have not stopped. The path behind them lays strewn with the marks of her anger. Marks of this phony rage she cannot seem to throw off. Obann leads her by the hand and directs her rage at his enemies. Or worse, those they happen across on the road.

Her sword drips with something other than rain. The voice in her head does not let her acknowledge it. It cannot stop her tears, though, as they march through Xhorhas’ wastes. 

They are headed to Nicodranas, she knows this. Her reluctant feet drag her closer, uncaring of the roc circling overhead. She cannot consider stopping, there is the hot flame of Obann’s power burning at her neck. They have walked for days now, and have many more to go. If she were to look at her feet she would see the blood from where her wet boots have rubbed her feet raw.

Obann will not let her stop for anything unnecessary. He considers treating any wounds that won’t kill her unnecessary. So they walk, and she feels her feet stick to her boots with old blood. She is exhausted, but Obann keeps the reassuring exhaustion of her grief from her fingers.

Her boots stick, but her feet don’t. Each step takes them closer to Nicodranas where they’re meeting a captain at the dead of night. The Orphan Maker is unsure of the purpose of this meeting. Her brain is clouded by a sea of fuzziness that keeps the sound of thunder at bay. Obann mentioned something to do with a seal.

Yes, he’d mentioned a seal. They need a seal to help unshackle the Angel. The Orphan Maker is unsure about this Angel of Irons. Thinking of an angel has her picturing everything she could be if her wings were not as they are. She thinks of angels and she thinks of light, of freedom. And when she thinks of it like that she hates to think of such a creature held in the shackles Obann mentions.

But then she thinks back to the path they are carving across Xhorhas, and that doesn’t add up. This Angel, whatever they’re following, is no bright salvation. The Orphan Maker imagines wings as skeletal as her own, and a ruthlessness to match. Such a creature should never be unshackled. As she walks, she catches glimpses of her blood spattered face in the muddy pools at the wayside. Such a creature should never be free to wreak such destruction.

There are raindrops running down her face. Obann will not notice the tears that join them. He does not look at her unless she struggles. She does not struggle anymore. She simply walks, step by bloody step. And when Obann says, she wets her sword with blood.

* * *

There is a flash, and Bren returns to Rexxentrum. The candles are not yet lit, so Astrid and Wulf must still be away. He clicks his fingers and the candelabras flare to light the room. Their basement is decidedly minimalist compared to the rest of the manse Trent has granted them for their service. The two wall mounted candelabras, intricate and arcane, throw their warm firelight over their circle, painted in Soltryce red, and the chest with their emergency supplies. Beyond those items and himself, the basement is empty.

He reaches out to find their wards undisturbed, so he smoothes hours worth of basement dust off of his fine coat and leaves the basement. The flames follow him as he leaves, the basement lights burning out as the flames dance to the hall candles. He is always proud when the lights flare. The spell is of his own designing - Wulf calls him a smug bastard whenever he mentions it. Bren thinks it shows that he has completed his training enough to pick up the habits of their mentor.

Besides, Wulf is just bitter that Bren is better. His spell design had failed. Astrid suggested, perhaps worryingly sweet, that maybe Wulf should stick to acid damage. Bren lays claim over fire in their trio. Bren likes fire. Fire cleanses. His candles burn bright for the empire. 

The flames that keep treason at bay lead the way to his study. He walks past fine furniture, rewards for successful assignments, their previous owners had been traitors to the empire. They had been no match for Ikithon’s finest triumphs. He brushes a cabinet as he passes. Its fine mahogany sings of Astrid at her finest. She had dripped poison and jewels at that ball. It had been her turn. Bren had watched her swirl around the floor, leading their target in an elaborate dance. They’d taken his drinking cabinet as their prize, considering it only fitting after Astrid’s mastery with the whisky.

His desk is his favourite acquisition. How beautiful the dark traces of flame that mark the shining wood are. He does not remember the man’s name or his face. He remembers only what is important. All that is important is his magic, and what it can bring him.

Tonight his magic has brought him a beautiful new tome. That idiot tiefling cultist had no clue what a gift he had granted Bren in return for a paltry bit of magic. His gaggle of followers had done their best posturing, but they had nothing on Trent Ikithon on a bad day. Bren had lived through a lot of bad days. This Lucien was more refreshing than anything. Perhaps he could give them to Wulf as a birthday gift.

He disregards the Tomb Takers. They aren’t important. He opens the book and summons his familiar to keep him company as he studies. He cannot help but to see the idiot tiefling’s face in each of the sigils he’d shaped today. It had been the most peaceful face Bren had ever seen on someone bleeding out on a floor. 

He finds he has to reread a page after he finishes it and realizes he has only taken in the jut of dark horns over a shorn head. The shorn head is not dissimilar to the hair Bren had worn before his fire was completely tame to his own hands. He wonders if Lucien, this cultist, would let his hair grow out once he is competent in dabbling. He catches himself wondering if it would be purple and forces himself back into his book.

He is one step closer to his goal when Astrid kicks his office door down and tells him to come and socialise with them. It’s her cooking night, she has made the meal that they’d eaten with her parents all those years ago on their graduation night. They keep each other on their toes like this. Trent says it’s good for them. Only the cabbage is poisoned, tonight. She is in a good mood.

‘What is the news?’

‘We have been given an offering. One of the cricks has turned traitor to the dynasty and gifted us two beacons for study. Trent says we are to help.’

‘That is good news.’ Bren understands why it is only the cabbage tonight.

‘Our mentor needs you to work with lady DeRogna. He says your alchemy needs a little revisiting.’ Astrid is not wrong in saying that Bren’s alchemy is subpar. He hates alchemy. They all know this. Wulf is grinning at him from behind a forkful of cabbage that he is dispelling.

Bren has a feeling that his slightly unauthorised excursion has been noticed. Alchemy is a better punishment than his younger self could have ever hoped for. And even if he thought he might not be able to handle it, he knows better than to decline a job assigned to him.

The academy has had its use of Professor Ermendrud this term. He is needed only for the little ones who are learning how to whisper to fire. Those who have failed to learn the skill at this point in term are no longer students at the academy. They will recall him for the next term, for the next set of children. But for now his is to alchemy.

What a gift this beacon is. His new tome is incomparable to such an offering. Bren is eager to study it. He is aware that the Dynasty will become aware of its missing artifacts and that there will be repercussions from Ghor Dranas. But they will not touch him. His concern is with knowledge alone, and war cannot touch the assembly in their Candles. If he is not a fool - and he seldom is - he is untouchable in all of this.

He will go to Felderwin in the morning. He has little to pack. Trent does not believe in excess. It takes him ten minutes to assemble his belongings. Ten more to double check his components. Astrid lends him a book he’s been eying up for months in return for one one his. Wulf offers him some cabbage that Bren notices is now both poisoned and acidic. Bren tells him about the Tomb Takers as a parting gift. It's just the kind of thing that Wulf enjoys.

When the morning comes, Bren begins the ride out of Rexxentrum to impose himself upon Yeza Brenatto of Felderwin. Lady DeRogna is not willing to waste a spell slot on him, and he is not yet skilled in teleporting without a circle to arrive in. He rides in the regalia of a mage of the empire and any wise bandits think twice before attacking him. He wipes the floor with the ones who try, they are nothing to him, but their attempts liven up his travel. After a couple of days, he feels the alterations he’d made to the tiefling cultist’s ritual take effect. His present for Wulf was a present indeed - it would keep giving itself.

* * *

‘Captain, a gift!’ 

The captain lifts his gaze from the map table before him to heed the shout from the crow’s nest. His lookout is right, there’s a merchant vessel bouncing along the trade route’s turbulent waves. He does not need to look to be sure that across the water the Squall Eater is lining herself up for this new offering.

The fools were sailing without protection, no guards, no convoy. Tragic. No-one would miss them until their hull hit the ocean floor. And what a hull it was, a fine Tal’Dorei Vessel, with its name gilded with golden paint, The Mother’s Bounty. She sails low to the water, clearly weighed down with cargo. The unguarded fools.

He gives the command and the Mist wheels about. They are making their way into Nicodranas but he won’t turn down an offer on their way. As he hears the sailors aboard their conquest begin to panic at their slowly raising colours, he lets the cold ocean run through him as his blade drips from his hand.

This would be fun. He looks her up to meet Avantika’s eyes where she stands on her deck. She smiles. Oh, it will be fun indeed. At her nod, they let the sea begin to froth beneath their quarry, just a taste of their reward. 

The Squall Eater fires the first shot. His lover is always so impatient. They pincer the Bounty. It is caught with their warning shots and they board it to find crates of fine wine sailing out to Tal’Dorei. A fine gift indeed.

Once the ship is looted, her cargo plundered and the crew checked for quality, the captain returns to the Mist and gives the command. They sail away as the Mother’s Bounty sinks beneath the waves, an offering for Uk’otoa. 

As the evening makes its way over the sea, Avantika comes aboard. They drink a toast in his cabin to reward, the eyes on their hands pressing together as she pushes him against the wall. Their plans can wait for her desires. 

The sea breeze through his open window wafts maps spread over his desk. They have marked out temples together. They have a book of plots for the Plank-King’s fall. And at the top of this mess of sea crystallised parchments is a plan for a meeting with a devil.

Fjord thinks on their shared knowledge of shackles as Avantika plays with her chains. This Obann is trying to unshackle an Angel, them, a Serpent. He’s unsure if this meeting will help their cause, but nonetheless, they are making it. Nicodranas is a convenient meeting place, not just for the convenience of unguarded ships on the trade routes, but for the fact that there’s now enough platinum in his pocket to visit the Jewel in her tower.

* * *

Miss Beauregard Lionett is not the praying type, but tonight she prays. She prays to the Goddess whose face watches over the sea she’s seeing for the first time. She picked a vessel bearing her name to take her precious cargo across the sea to Tal’Dorei. She has placed all her hope in its hold.

After years of declined requests, her father has allowed her to leave Kamordah to see their wine reach beyond the fringes of the continent. She is sending crates to Tal’Dorei to build up a demand. This is her riskiest venture. She cannot imagine what will happen if she fails.

All her finances are in this. She cannot bear to think on it. She turns her back to the sea and returns to the city, leaving her hope to its fate. She walks the city, loath to return to the shabby room she has rented. In the richer districts she catches the sound of a voice in the wind. Following it, it leads her to a hotel she knows she will never afford on her small wage. 

She peers in through the door, through the incense smoke, and crowded patrons gazing up at the woman on the stairs. She is beautiful. That is Beau’s first thought, after about a minute of shocked static. Her heart races as the notes of the song catch around the woman’s sharp fanged teeth and accent. Beau stares in wonder at the horns that drip with jewels that sparkle like starlight, at the gown that seems to make her glow, so white it is almost blue, emphasising her bright skin.

Beau is leaving the city tomorrow, but how can she leave now that she has seen  _ her _ ? Without knowing her name, she knows that she will never afford her company, even if this venture pays off. No. Tomorrow she will return to Kamordah and think no more on this woman, this angel. She has work to do.

When she returns to Kamordah she has meetings to attend. She must be ready for them. She must not allow her sweet temperament to slip. She _cannot_ allow her temperament to slip. Her father expects better from her. She knows she is already disappointing him. She must do better. She cannot think on this woman when he wants her to marry well for the business.

Maybe the Wildmother will listen to her. Maybe a deity, any deity will listen to her, and protect her cargo and her venture. She is praying for a miracle, hopefully someone will show up to help. She finishes her prayer as the woman finishes her song, for a moment she swears that she meets her eyes and smiles. But the spell of her smile breaks as she takes in her applause and offers her hand to a man dressed in finery that looks as if it costs more than Beau earns in a year.

Beau turns her back to the door. It is time to go home. She has paperwork to do tonight. There is no point in hoping when there is work to do.

* * *

Nott grins. It is a work night. She hears the drums as she gathers her arrows and gets ready to play. She is armed beyond the teeth, and her claws are ready for any filthy halfling that messes with her.

She can slip to invisibility with ease. It is her pride to lead their raids from the inside. It's how she earned her name, _Nott the End_. She kills and she kills and she kills. Anything to make the clan accept her. In the torture chamber, her dextrous fingers play for the clan’s amusement.

She drinks the deepest of them. She laughs the loudest. She kills the quickest.

The clan leave so many bodies in their wake. She has overturned caravans, and spooked horses. She is a part of their force. She eats what she’s given and she enjoys it. She takes dares without question.

Tonight, she dips her arrows in her own poison brew. It’s the biggest raid she’s ever been part of. She must be ready. She must prove herself to the clan. The drums beat louder than the wind on her tent. Her heart matches the beat. She shoulders her quiver and moves her feet to match. 

Here they go. 

There’s mud beneath her bare feet but she doesn’t care. She has a mission. ‘Distract’, they told her. It doesn’t matter if you die. She will fulfil it. She must fulfil it. 

She slips down quiet streets in the unfamiliar town. Her feet somehow know where she’s going, even if she does not. She finds the apothecary in the town centre before her. It will do.

She lets herself in. The poison on her arrows works fast. Sleeping halflings are no problem for her. The family’s blood speckles her hands as she kindles a fire as bid. Her long fingers are fumbling the tinderbox when she is surprised by the opening of the basement door.

She starts.

There's a human before her, hand outstretched, as the fire finally catches. He holds a strange glowing object in his hand as he freezes before her. When one of them moves it will be on, but they are frozen, waiting for the other to move. The fire catches around them, as the apothecary begins to burn.

There’s a rumble outside. It’s not the clan. Nott and the human are distracted. A large purple creature emerges from the road outside. 

He says something in a language she doesn’t understand before vanishing with the dodecahedron in hand. This is a separate attack. There are foreign soldiers coming closer. She vanishes upstairs to hide, the fire hasn’t spread there yet. Perhaps she can make her way out of the window she came in.

She makes her way into the master bedroom. The halfling she killed is lying peacefully in bed. Something makes her pause as she makes her way past. There’s something about his face. She can’t place it.

She keeps looking.

She keeps looking. What is it?

The fire begins to roar around her. She should be leaving. Why isn’t she leaving? There is nothing here for her, in this town under attack. But she stays put.

The bedsheets are catching as she stares at this face.

_Oh_. Oh no.

Yeza was his name. Oh no. And she remembers. She remembers and she crumples and the fire roars around them, his blood drying on her hands. 

* * *

The Sapphire doesn’t straighten the bedsheets as she retires to her private quarters. That isn’t her job. She leaves the man, some lord, in her work bed. He’d paid thousands for what he’d gotten, and she’s not inclined to give him any more.

There’s a bath waiting for her. They know what she likes. A platter of baklava waits beside it with some wine that’s just come in from the empire. She settles herself amongst the bubbles, and begins to sing for herself. It feels rare to not have to sing for others, to not be refined and polished. 

She sings verses of bawdy ballads she’s picked up from the street with a mouth full of pastry. Her tutors, if they were dead, would be rolling in their graves at her conduct. She takes a sip of the wine. It must be good, considering how the staff know her dislike of alcohol. It's good wine, she doesn’t mind it.

When she emerges from her bath in a massive sweeping bathrobe she asks her bodyguard about it. Apparently a young woman presented it as a gift for her, leaving only the name Lionett. Genevieve drinks a silent toast to her, before retreating to her bedchamber. 

It is an intricate task to unhook the jewels that weigh down her horns, but once they are gone she can shake her head freely and laugh. This room is so different from the room that contained her childhood. The Chateau couldn’t support two lead singers, so here she is, in her tower. There are no drawings on the walls of this room, her mischievous imaginary friend left her a long time ago.

She opens her sketchbook to draw. What could she draw tonight? The faces in her crowd were all regulars, nobody new, she flicks back through the book. Yes she’s drawn all her regulars. Some of the drawings have little lists of what she’d like to do to them. She’s marked out the ones she’d lock on a balcony, or embarrass in some other way. But she won’t do it.

Her station is too precarious to do it. She might be the queen of this little domain but her influence reaches no further, and she knows this. She accepts dances at balls with men she’d rather kick than dance with. She is too well schooled to risk a misstep and kick them. She vets her clients, yes, but it always seems that only awful people have money enough to visit her. She likes none of them.

The page before her is still blank. Her paintbrush is still hovering above the water, as she thinks. Wait! She saw a woman, someone new, just as she finished her song tonight. She had been blurred by the haze of incense, so Genevieve draws what she thinks she might look like. The face she remembers, she makes sure to paint the determination into it. She remembers the hair tied back, but the rest she imagines. She thinks of strong arms and the Cobalt Soul monks she sees occasionally from her balcony. Yes, she thinks, that’s her story. 

The Sapphire likes stories, she makes a story for every new person she meets, and slowly lets them prove them wrong. She thinks about this monk in her mind, she’s so strong, but she fights in fighting pits for fun. Her determination, the Sapphire decides, is because she wants to make the world better, but she is pushing against authority to do so. She sighs. Another romantic hero for her collection.

She likes this monk almost as much as she likes the sea captain who comes to see her sometimes. She thinks he’s a pirate, but a shy, misguided one. She imagines him with his strong sword bearing arms, kissing a drowning lover to share their breath. He proves her wrong each time he visits.

Her story runs different. She’s painted it all out, she does another piece now, adding her monk beside her captain. She paints herself, too, not in the silken gowns she wears, but a short frock for adventuring. In her story they are heroes, she brandishes a giant lollipop and a smile, and she can lock anyone on a balcony if she wants to. Her friends will protect her if there are repercussions.

Once the painting is dried, she puts her book away and moves to the window. Far away, on the horizon, she watches a ship sailing away. She recognises it, the Mother’s Bounty, she went for dinner on it once. The lighthouse watches over it, it should be alright. It will have a good day of sailing tomorrow and be back in harbour soon. Genevieve likes to keep track of how the ships come and go, she notices when they don’t come back.

All the ships have stories too. If she gives everything a story, the stories will keep her company, because nothing else truly will.

* * *

Seasons come and go from the grove. The plants flower and the leaves fall, Caduceus watches. He stays when the others are gone. If he goes, who will remember the stories of each stone. If he goes, who will care for the grove.

He stays. There is always something to do at the grove. The Wildmother will send him a sign if he needs to go. His family will come back. He needs to have tea ready for them if they come back. Vegetables need to be grown. 

Caduceus follows the seasons. They are the only things that change, besides the occasional inhabitant of the Run trying to rob the grove. Each time it happens, he grows the walls up higher. He reinforces the spots where the blight has killed the brambles.

It needs reinforcement more and more often as season after season passes. Caduceus doesn’t know how long it has been since the last of the Clays left. He has tea ready for when they come back. He only has three cups, but he’s ready. He wakes each day thinking, ‘maybe they’ll come back today’.

He does his best to preserve the grove. He feeds all the magic the Wildmother grants him to cultivate the plants from the dead. He follows the funeral rituals perfectly. He does his best for the bereaved, knowing that he will be able to shove it in Colton’s face when his brother comes home.

One season a mud coated tiefling crawls their way into the grove. Caduceus does his best to help. He has tea ready. The tiefling doesn’t speak, but that’s alright, Caduceus is used to silence. He watches as the seasons change and the tiefling’s hair begins to grow out. He offers the name, Mollymauk, after a bird in a story his aunt used to tell him. He’s not sure how to spell it, but his new friend doesn’t seem to mind.

Mollymauk is so silently curious. Caduceus finds himself talking more than he has in the last ten seasons combined as he tells him the stories for each grave. When Molly remembers how to speak, they are familiar enough to be Molly for short. Molly has so much energy, the grove cannot really contain them.

Caduceus has told Molly every story he knows by the time they start to talk. Molly is a good listener, they nod at all the right times. Caduceus finds he has told them stories he never intended to after he finishes them.

Molly follows him around the grove as he attends it. Caduceus finds himself having one sided conversations with them as he does with the plants. It becomes their routine. Molly watches and listens, and Caduceus talks as he potters. 

The first time Molly talks is to answer a pointless question that Caduceus has asked without thinking about it. They are both so surprised to hear Molly’s voice that they forget the question entirely to drink tea to celebrate.

Once Molly is talking, they don’t follow Caduceus everywhere, but thoroughly explore the graveyard, poking into everything with curious fingers, and tracing the engraved letters with his hands. Caduceus’ tasks take a little longer when he gets preoccupied watching them discover the grounds he knows so well. It is a simple companionship, Caduceus finds joy in it and thanks the Wildmother for his friend.

Molly outgrows the graveyard. Their voice grows louder and more confident. They listen to Caduceus and for the first time have a voice for their questions. They ask at first about the graves and the Wildmother, and Caduceus is free with his answers.

He hesitates after telling Molly about his family once more and they ask, ‘why don’t you go look for them?’

Caduceus can’t leave. He can’t leave the grove. He needs to stay here. What if they come back and the tea isn’t ready. What if he’s not there and the graverobbers come and nobody fends them off. What if he’s not there and the blight takes over.

‘I can’t leave’, Why won’t Molly understand. He tries to explain it, they never get it. He can see what will happen, Molly is going to leave, too. Their leaving is inevitable, everyone leaves the grove.

But Caduceus cannot leave. His place is to be here. He is the one who stays when everyone leaves. 

Molly stays another season before they leave, Caduceus cannot go with them, even though they offer it. They plead with him to come. He cannot come. He watches Molly pass through the gate one spring morning, feet taking the path his family took, Caduceus’ seldom used pack on his back.

His tasks are empty for the seasons that follow. He has tea ready in case anyone comes back. Nobody comes back. Caduceus reinforces the wall. He grows tea. He does funerals. The silence is so empty now.

The seasons pass, and pass, and pass. He puts all his magic into the grove. He finds himself talking to people who are no longer there. 

He finds his first grey hair the day the blight breaches the wall. He is growing older. He cannot reinforce the wall as strongly. He watches the plants begin to fall. His vegetables begin to fail. He is running out of tea. 

He breaks another of his cups when his hands begin to shake. So many seasons have passed since Molly left, since his family left, but every day he wakes and thinks, ‘maybe today they will come home’.

And the seasons pass and the blight crumbles the walls around the grove. And the seasons pass and his vegetables don’t grow. And the seasons pass and the gravestones crumble beneath his hands, stone falling victim to the passing of time all across the continent.

And the seasons pass, and Caduceus delivers funerals the best he can. He has no tea to offer, he broke the last cup seasons ago. The rituals he learnt so long ago are fuzzy in his head.

And the seasons pass. The grove is gone, no nature to protect. There are no graves anymore, only crumbled stone. There is no guardian, and nobody to lay him to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how it went? Also sorry if you are sad now
> 
> So i'm writing a sequel to make things better


End file.
